


Drizzle, Lifeboats, and Sweet Things

by KatjaLaRoux



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatjaLaRoux/pseuds/KatjaLaRoux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond finds himself alone and struggling to make a new home in London. Running into Shaun might change things completely.<br/>...<br/>Although Desmond couldn’t blame either Lucy or Yusuf for why he was standing on a quiet street corner in the wet, grey London air. That was all Shaun’s doing. (Modern AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drizzle

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a while ago, but I never finished and assumed I'd never bother posting it. Then I killed a character in another story. And was asked for something to make up for it. So I pulled this out, dusted it off, and finished it. It's ridiculously AU and still a little sad/dark at points. BUT! No one dies, and it's got a happy/hopeful ending. So, Bonecrestdragon, this is for you.

Desmond pulled his hood lower over his eyes and shoved his hands back in his pockets. Fucking London and its constant fucking drizzle. On the one hand, it’s wasn’t really all that cold. On the other hand, it felt like the same temperature no matter what time of day it was. Forty-something and drizzly. All the fucking time. It was not the first time he wondered how he had ended up there.

Of course, he knew the answer. It was a simple one. Simple and pretty and blonde. Lucy. He had stupidly quit his job in New York and followed Lucy to England, sure things would work out just fine. But, of course, they didn’t. Lucy betrayed him. And left him alone in this drizzly, grey city, and he had too much pride to go running home and admit to everyone that it had been a mistake.

So he found himself a shitty room in a shitty flat with a slightly crazy Turkish guy who Desmond was pretty sure built bombs in his spare time. But Yusuf was also the perfect bit of crazy Desmond needed to keep this depressing city from completely eating his soul.

Although Desmond couldn’t blame either Lucy or Yusuf for why he was standing on a quiet street corner in the wet, grey London air. That was all Shaun’s doing. And Desmond really had no idea how he had ended up _there_.

He had run into Shaun— _literally_ —on his way out of the café around the corner from his flat. Admittedly, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going, but Shaun’s little tirade was a bit over the top. Especially considering it was Desmond’s coffee that was spilled and Desmond’s phone that shattered on the sidewalk. Shaun came out of the incident completely unscathed. But he let out an impressive string of curses and got red-faced and probably had his fists clenched. Desmond didn’t really remember, being too flustered by whole situation and the fact that he was going to be late to his interview.

His interview had gone well, despite him showing up late and still rattled from the incident. When Claudia, the woman who owned the bar, asked how he was finding London, Desmond had unthinkingly commented on the city being full of assholes. Claudia just arched an eyebrow at him, and he hastily explained how he had lost his coffee, destroyed his phone, and been called a tiny child by the too-well-dressed ginger he’d accidentally bumped into. Claudia laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. And then she hired him. Desmond had returned to the café to repurchase the same coffee he’d lost an hour prior only to find that Shaun, belatedly developing some sort of conscious, had paid the barista for a coffee for Desmond’s next visit. He had also left a business card.

Desmond sent a short email to thank him—both for the coffee and for inadvertently helping him get a job.

Shaun had replied with mild curiosity about how he’d helped. So Desmond retold the story—and didn’t even feel guilty about telling Shaun he’d called him an asshole. Shaun didn’t respond.

But then, two days later, Yusuf was out climbing buildings or some such nonsense, and Desmond was hungry. And he wanted pizza. So he sent Shaun an email and asked if he could recommend a decent pizza joint in the neighborhood near the café.

Shaun’s response was something along the lines of “ _I have a job, you know. A job that requires a great deal of concentration, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t have time to play tour guide_.”

Five minutes later, Desmond got another email with the name of a restaurant a few blocks away.

It wasn’t New York pizza, but it was decent. Desmond told Shaun as much in an email. Shaun replied with some insignificant question about being from New York, and a string of emails ensued. Emails that lasted into the evening, when Shaun was clearly no longer at work.

Then trickled into the next day.

And the next week.

And the week after.

And somewhere along the way, Desmond may have admitted to being homesick. Or lonely. Or perhaps both. It was one of those emails that he shouldn’t have even sent. But he’d hit the send button before he really thought about it.

Shaun’s reply suggested going out on the town and enjoying “ _the local color_.”

Desmond couldn’t tell if Shaun was being serious or being snarky. Snark was sometimes difficult to detect in email, and Shaun seemed to be full of it. Unable to make up his mind about the intent, Desmond decided to ignore the email and go to bed.

When he woke up, he found another email. With a date, time, and address.

And so Desmond was standing on a street corner in the fucking drizzle, waiting for the asshole who had called him a tiny child. And he was still trying to figure out why.

Maybe it was because he was homesick. And lonely. Or, maybe, it had something to do with the fact that he grinned whenever he saw the little blue light on his phone flash, letting him know he had a new message. Or that he sometimes found himself checking his email even when the light wasn’t flashing. You know, just in case. Because he _liked_ hearing from Shaun. Even in email, he could tell Shaun was smart. Not just clever, but legitimately smarter than most people. Smarter than Desmond, for sure. He was funny, too. Witty. The kind that made Desmond laugh out loud, earning looks from Yusuf across the room.

Then again, maybe Desmond was just bored.

But when Desmond saw Shaun turn the corner, still impeccably dressed save the drizzle-spattered glasses and hideous red and blue striped scarf, and his stomach did some _thing_ that felt much too much like butterflies, he decided to stop thinking about why he was there.

“Oh, good,” Shaun said by way of greeting. “You’re not late.”

Desmond just sort of stupidly nodded and followed Shaun to the station. It took him a minute to think to ask where they were going.

“Croyden” was all Shaun said.

After a couple of stops and some small talk, Desmond asked, “Where exactly is Croyden?”

“South.” Shaun looked at him for a moment and shook his head. “You’re very trusting, getting on a train with someone you barely know to go somewhere you’ve never heard of. I could be a killer, you know.”

Desmond snorted out a laugh. “I’ve worked as a bartender for a long time. I’m pretty good at spotting trouble, and I know I can defend myself.”

“Listen to you, trying to be all ‘bad-ass.’”

“I’m sure I’ve been in and broken up more fights than a _historian_ ,” Desmond replied.

“Are you mocking my job?” Shaun tilted his head. “Because I’ll have you know I do very important things for the museum. I have a gift, Desmond. I have a gift for seeing things. Making connections, like your ‘spotting trouble,’ I suppose. Only useful.”

Desmond rolled his eyes and laughed again. “So why is the frightening, killer historian taking me to Croyden?”

Shaun smirked. And pulled a little envelope from his pocket, handing it to Desmond. Desmond opened it and pulled out two tickets.

“You’re taking me to soccer game?”

Shaun grimaced and snatched the tickets back from Desmond’s hand.

“Football match, Desmond. Football. Match. And yes. I did say local color, didn’t I? And you told me last week you hadn’t been to one yet. We will drink overpriced pints and eat mediocre pies and call the referee a wanker at least once.”

“A wanker?” Desmond raised his eyebrows.

Shaun narrowed his eyes. “Is there a problem?”

“Nope,” Desmond shook his head quickly. “Just clarifying.”

The rest of the train ride was consumed by Shaun explaining to Desmond the way the professional soccer— _football_ —worked in England, the worst teams dropping down to a lower league and the good teams getting bumped up. It was _pitch_ not a field and _boots_ not cleats. Desmond, of course, knew all of this already. He’d watched games on television with Yusuf and, well, he wasn’t an complete idiot. But after weeks of emailing, he decided he liked listening to Shaun talk.

And when his brain made that particular decision, his stomach did that _thing_ gain.

“You could at least pretend to listen, Desmond,” Shaun said, shaking his head.

“What? Sorry, I was—no, I was listening. Your team will probably lose today because they’re playing against the top team in the league. I was listening.”

Shaun turned out to be wrong. They did drink overpriced pints and ate mediocre pies and called the referee a wanker. But Shaun’s team won. It was a lucky mistake, but a win is a win. And, as he watched Shaun, impeccably dressed, bespectacled, historian Shaun, sing and chant and swear just as loudly as the rest of the mostly-drunk crowd around them, Desmond ignored the drizzle and grinned.


	2. Lifeboats

**-Lifeboats-**

Desmond pulled his hood lower over his eyes and shoved his hands back in his pockets. Fucking London and its constant fucking drizzle.

Loneliness was a funny thing.

Yusuf was always chattering away, sometimes following Desmond from room to room as he talked. And being a bartender was always about talking—meeting people, talking to strangers, being friendly. Desmond was glad he didn’t need to be _cheerful_ , but he couldn’t be an asshole. And the amount of times he got asked where he was from and how he ended up in London—well, he told Shaun in an email that he was considering printing up little cards with his life story on them. They could double as coasters. And he could stop answering the same fucking questions over and over. Shaun had approved of the idea. He even offered to edit the story for grammar.

But even with all of that chatter at work and at home, Desmond felt alone most of the time.

Shaun was, in a way, like a little lifeboat. It was a dumb analogy, but it was the most accurate thing Desmond could think of. The messages from him, regardless of how mundane, reminded him that he was not entirely alone in this city. And that helped him keep his head above water.

He liked Shaun. Impeccably dressed, cynical and snarky, historian Shaun.

But, unlike Desmond who had no one else to talk to besides his slightly crazy Turkish flatmate and the various strangers he had to socialize with at work, Shaun was not lonely. Shaun had friends. A job that was more interesting and more important than mixing drinks. Unlike Shaun, Desmond didn't have a whole lot other than Shaun. He knew that. He understood.

So he did not invite Shaun for pizza. Or a pint. Or another football match. No matter how tempted he was to do just that. Instead, he sent a note each day, replied to anything Shaun sent him, and frowned at his phone a lot whenever Shaun didn’t reply back—because maybe, just maybe, it was the phone’s fault.

About a two weeks after the football match, Shaun showed up at Desmond’s bar during a lunch shift. To get a drink. To say hello. To give Desmond a hard time. And to meet a woman named Rebecca to whom he introduced Desmond.

Desmond watched them from the corner of his eye. To keep their drinks filled, but also to watch them. Shaun was, of course, impeccably dressed as always. That was Shaun. Desmond glanced down at himself and frowned. Shaun was flat-front slacks and button-up shirts. He was v-neck sweaters and shiny loafers. The man wore _loafers_ for fuck’s sake. Desmond was just jeans and t-shirts and the same white hoodie every day. He had never worn a pair of loafers in his life. He didn’t want to either.

And he watched as the woman laughed loudly, too loudly for Desmond’s taste, at something Shaun said. And Shaun’s responding grin was just a little smug. She saw Desmond looking. And winked. Desmond ignored her. But they stayed for a long time, longer than what was left of Desmond’s shift. And when Desmond cleared his register and passed his duties off to his replacement, he gave Shaun a half-hearted wave and stepped out into the drizzly afternoon.

Almost immediately, he got a text message from Shaun. Because somewhere along the way, they had graduated from email to text. And Shaun wanted to know why he took off so quickly. Desmond replied that he didn’t want to interrupt. And shoved his phone back in his pocket and trudged towards the tube station.

But he didn’t really want to go back to his shitty room in his shitty flat. It really only made the things worse. The half-empty room was just a reminder that it wasn’t _home._ It was London. Full of wet, grey London air and constant fucking drizzle. So he walked past the tube station and kept going.

Some days, Desmond felt like he was living someone else’s life. And maybe it was someone who had purpose, who was doing important things. But Desmond felt like he was just there—like he was crouched in the back of this other person’s mind, watching his memories and reliving his movements. Because if it was Desmond’s life, surely he wouldn’t have chosen to trudge around aimlessly in the fucking drizzle.

Desmond ended up at the Thames. It was an accident that happened to him more often than not, like the whole world revolved around the Thames and no matter how far he walked or which direction he turned, he would always end up back there. He stopped and leaned his elbows on a railing, watched the water, and considered moving back to New York.

But he knew he couldn’t. Somehow, he just knew he needed to stay. To keep doing what he was doing.

Maybe he didn’t want to admit to his father that running off like he did had been a mistake. Or maybe he couldn’t let go of the idea that there was _something_ in London for him. Yusuf had said one night that maybe Desmond had ended up in London for a reason, and Desmond kind of wanted to believe that. He just had no idea what that reason might be.

He turned his head and looked towards the sound of someone laughing. And wasn’t it funny that there, just next to where’d he’d accidentally ended up, was the fucking _lifeboat_ pier?

If Desmond was going to suffer through this drizzly city because of some crazy notion he’d ended up there for a reason, he’d better pay attention to obvious signs like _that_. He shook his head and pulled his phone back out.

And invited Shaun to meet him for a pint.

They were two-three-four pints into the evening, and Shaun had been on some rant about America’s Founding Fathers and laws against sodomy and the Treaty of Tripoli. And Desmond just listened and watched Shaun’s face, cheeks pink from the alcohol and excitement, and his stomach had been doing that _thing_ again.

“Really, Desmond, I know this stuff already. Pay attention, would you?”

Desmond shook his head. “I was listening.”

But his lapse in attention had apparently killed Shaun’s interest in whatever conspiracy he was on about. So they left the pub, and now they were standing in the fucking drizzle just outside.

“Thanks for coming out,” Desmond said. He doubted the single syllable of gratitude really got at what he was grateful for. Because how did you thank someone for not letting you drown?

Shaun waved a hand dismissively. “You needed to get out.”

“Yeah,” Desmond said, half-smiling. “I did.”

Shaun frowned at him for a moment. Then shook his head. “Rebecca’s having a party next weekend. It’s her birthday. You should come.”

Desmond blinked. And nodded. And as Shaun headed off in one direction, Desmond shoved his hands in his pockets and turned the opposite way, waking back to his flat through London’s drizzly, grey streets.


	3. Sweet Things

**-Sweet Things-**

Desmond pulled his hood lower over his eyes and shoved his hands back in his pockets. Fucking London and its constant fucking drizzle.

Shaun kept saying it would go away, but it hadn’t. Shaun swore London had sunshine. Shaun said a lot of things. Desmond believed most of them because he knew Shaun was smart. And he listened to everything he said because he liked listening to Shaun talk.

And sometimes he still got caught up in just listening, and sometimes his stomach would still do that _thing_.

Like right now, when Shaun was talking about _ice cream_ of all things. But it was something about the way he said “I like sweet things,” and Desmond cast him a sidelong glance, the words dancing around in his gut with some other meaning he couldn’t pin down.

They had met on the same corner and taken the train just a few stops to Rebecca’s flat. There, Shaun introduced Desmond to everyone, Rebecca’s girlfriend, Aveline, included. Desmond’s smile might have been a little bit wider for her than for anyone else he’d met. He didn’t dwell on why that might be for very long, and instead headed for the table decorated with bottles of booze in varying shades.

It was a comfortable sight, something he was familiar with. Mixing drinks was something he could do with his hands while everyone else talked. He would let Shaun hang out with his friends and keep himself occupied by making drinks.

He hadn’t been there all that long, just long enough to make himself a gin and tonic, when Shaun appeared at his side.

“Are you going to stand here all night?”

Desmond shrugged. And before he could even explain, Shaun was frowning and shaking his head. And leaning a hip against the edge of the table and crossing his arms like he was staying.

“Well you can at least make me Tom Collins while we’re here.”

Desmond grinned. And obeyed.

And just as he was handing Shaun the drink, fingers brushing as he passed it over, Aveline sidled up to the table and asked if he could make the shots that taste like chocolate cake. Desmond scanned the table for the right bottles before nodding and asking how many.

Shaun arched an eyebrow as Desmond lined up six shot glasses and starting pouring vodka and hazelnut liqueur in each.

“How the fuck do you make something taste like chocolate cake when there is no chocolate involved?”

Desmond smirked at him and grabbed a seventh glass.

“I have a gift, Shaun,” he mocked. And Shaun rolled his eyes and let out a huff of air. But Desmond saw the grin tugging at the other man’s mouth. He finished lining up the sugar-sprinkled lemon slices and waved Aveline over. She came with Rebecca and the others whose names he’d already forgotten, except for Ezio who looked oddly familiar.

Six of the glasses were claimed. And Desmond looked at Shaun pointedly before Shaun hesitantly picked up the seventh. Desmond handed him the sugared lemon slice with a smug grin.

A birthday toast was made. Glasses were tipped back. And Desmond’s eyes were focused entirely on the line of Shaun’s lips as he sucked the sugared lemon slice after the shot.

Shaun dropped the lemon slice back into the glass and tipped his head to the side.

But Ezio interrupted whatever Shaun was about to say.

“You’re Yusuf’s roommate!”

Desmond blinked at the dark-haired man. And nodded.

“I thought I recognized you,” he said. “Yusuf’s got some pictures of you on our refrigerator.”

Ezio smirked, his eyes locked on Desmond’s, and his voice dropped to something almost seductive as he asked, “Naked pictures?”

Desmond’s cheeks suddenly felt warm, even though he hadn’t done a shot. And the look Ezio was giving him was distracting him from even answering the question. But Shaun cleared his throat, and the sudden sound broke Ezio’s gaze.

And Ezio laughed. “You’re cute,” he pointed at Desmond. Then he winked at Shaun and added, “And _you’re_ lucky,” before walking away and draping his arm around Rebecca’s shoulders.

Desmond looked at Shaun, trying to shake off the feeling of Ezio’s gaze. “Why are you lucky?”

Shaun studied him a minute before shaking his head. “You are _not_ playing bartender all night,” he said, standing straight and grabbing Desmond by the arm. “I brought you here to meet people. And you’re going to bloody well meet people.”

Desmond let himself be pulled back towards the growing group of Shaun’s friends. He let himself be pulled into conversations. He even let himself drinks drinks mixed by someone else. And he found himself laughing and cracking dumb jokes just like he used to with his friends back in New York.

And he was aware that, no matter how the group divided and re-divided, conversations shifting and taking certain people to different parts of the flat, Shaun stayed with him. And eventually they both just settled—Desmond decided he was comfortable balanced on arm of the chair Shaun sat in, with Shaun’s shoulder warm against his thigh—while the others came and went. He lost count of how many drinks he’d had, but he was getting the hang of people’s names, leaning close to Shaun to ask quietly whenever someone he wasn’t sure about joined their particular corner.

And there was a moment when Ezio, after resting a hand on Desmond’s shoulder and telling a story that would have sounded insane if Desmond didn’t know Yusuf, winked at Shaun again and sauntered away to some other cluster of people, leaving Shaun and Desmond in silence.

And Desmond remembered suddenly where he was and that these were not his friends back in New York. He frowned for a moment and glanced over at the booze table before standing.

“No, no, no.” Shaun jumped up quickly and put himself between Desmond and the familiarity of the booze table, pressing his hand against Desmond’s chest. “You are not going back to making drinks.”

Desmond looked at Shaun’s frown, then at the hand on his chest. And Shaun quickly dropped his hand.

“I wasn’t going to,” Desmond said, meeting Shaun’s eyes again.

“Liar,” Shaun snorted. Then he shook his head. “You know, if you stop thinking of New York as home and think of London as home, this might be easier.”

“What?” Desmond frowned.

“Making friends. Meeting people. Not being homesick anymore.” He waved a hand dismissively and repeated, “It’s easier if you start thinking of this as home.”

Shaun’s words slowly crept along Desmond’s skin, like air bubbles while underwater.

And Desmond looked at Shaun then, really looked at him. His cheeks were flushed, and there was something quite serious in the set of his jaw. Impeccably dressed, cynical and snarky, historian Shaun was giving Desmond advice. And waiting patiently for Desmond to respond.

Home.

“It is home.” The words were out of Desmond’s mouth before he really thought them through, but the moment they were, it was like the air shifted around him.

And Shaun smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. A genuine smile. And Desmond found himself staring at the line of his lips again. And thinking about the way Shaun had stuck by his side all night. And the way Ezio had winked at Shaun and told him he was lucky. And the feeling of Shaun’s arm against his thigh, his hand pressed to his chest. And the way Shaun was looking at him right then.

And Desmond’s stomach started doing that _thing_ again.

He shook his head, deciding he’d had enough to drink.

“I should head home.”

Shaun’s smile faded away, and he nodded. It was late after all. And they said their happy birthdays and goodbyes, and Desmond was hyper-aware that Shaun was _still_ right next to him the entire time. He didn’t even need to leave with Desmond, but he was anyway.

When they stepped outside and onto the wet, grey London street, Desmond pulled his hood up out of habit, smiling slightly as he thought of _home._ He caught Shaun watching him. And Shaun was suddenly no longer a lifeboat but a _fact_. A part of this new life Desmond apparently had—a part who had stayed at his side all night.

And, again, Desmond spoke without really thinking through what he was saying.

“Was this a date?”

Shaun’s eyes went wide, and, for a moment, neither of them said a word. And whatever that _thing_ was that Desmond’s stomach kept doing dropped away completely, leaving a chasm of _nothing_.

“Sorry,” Desmond finally managed to get out. “I, uh, I didn’t—”

“Maybe,” Shaun muttered, cutting of Desmond’s stammering.

And whatever that _thing_ was came back in full force, so much so that it was no longer just in Desmond’s stomach—now his whole body seemed to be doing it. And Desmond couldn’t help but grin.

“Was the football match a date, too?”

Shaun rolled his eyes. “ _That_ was local color,” he said. “And you liked it.”

“I did,” Desmond agreed. “But mostly because of the company.”

And before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and brushed a kiss to Shaun’s cheek.

He started to say “good night” but only got the first word out before Shaun gripped the edges of his hood with both hands and pulled Desmond back, pressing their lips together firmly. On instinct, Desmond reached for Shaun’s hips, digging his fingers in just a little. And he was probably imagining it, but he could have sworn he could still taste the sugared lemon as he ran his tongue along the line of Shaun’s lower lip. His brain helpfully supplied Shaun’s voice from earlier in the evening, saying “I like sweet things.”

And just as Desmond dragged Shaun’s body flush with his own and opened his mouth to Shaun’s, suddenly wanting _more_ , Shaun pulled away abruptly. He quickly adjusted his glasses on his nose and gave Desmond a grin. “Come to my place tomorrow. Six o’clock. I’ll make dinner.”

With that, Shaun turned away and headed down the block. Desmond watched him for a moment, smiling to himself and making a mental note to bring ice cream. And he turned the other way, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked back to his shitty little room in his shitty little flat where he knew his slightly crazy Turkish roommate was probably passed out on the couch.

And if there was any drizzle at all, Desmond didn’t notice it.


End file.
